Mental Picture
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: Blind, Sherlock tries to form a mental picture of his new flatmate, one John Watson


**A/N: Happy Christmas to my dearest friend and fandom BFFL, Erica! Love you, and enjoy! **

* * *

They met at a coffee shop. Of course, Sherlock would never frequent such a place, but Mike wanted a drink and the lab was dull without him. Normally, of course, Sherlock would find his way around with ease, but Molly had decided to redecorate for the holidays and now his mental map was lost. Mike had been in the middle of explaining where the beakers were hidden when he decided the need for coffee was overpowering, and he dragged the consulting detective along with.

As per usual, the sounds and smells were overpowering and he got the beginnings of a terrible headache. "Ready, yet?" Sherlock growled, pinching Mike's arm.

"One minute, Sherlock," the doctor said quietly. Then louder, "hey! John! John Watson!" His arm lifted to wave at some figure, and Sherlock immediately put his guard on. Mike never mentioned a John Watson before.

"Mike? Hello," replied a calm, collected voice. An aluminium cane clunked forward as the two presumably shook hands. "It's been a while."

"Yeah! What are you doing back? I thought you were off in Iraq?"

"No-" Watson began, but Sherlock swiftly interrupted.

"It was Afghanistan."

"What...how-" Watson spluttered as Mike chuckled, patting Sherlock's hand.

"Meet Sherlock Holmes, John."

"How did you know I was-"

"An invalid from Afghanistan? Your smell. How recently did you quit smoking? The tobacco on your coat is only produced outside of Kandahar, therefore placing you in Afghanistan, that is, until you were invalid. Now, of course, you're working at the common clinic and trying to get over your psychosomatic limp. Not succeeding, I'm afraid." Sherlock finished with a flourish, waiting for the reply.

"That was incredible," Watson murmured.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Are you some sort of genius?"

"No, just blind."

"Oh..." Watson paused, shuffling his feet. "I'm sorry...?"

"No need to be. It wasn't your fault, was it?"

Mike coughed, and Sherlock felt his watch. Ah, break time over. "In search of a flatmate, Doctor Watson?"

"Yeah, actually. Mike, did you say something to him?"

"Nope," Mike chuckled, "he's naturally insufferable."

"Well, meet me at 221 Baker St tomorrow at noon, and we can discuss." Sherlock gave Watson one more smile before letting Mike lead him to the door. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor," he said cordially.

"And you as well, Sherlock." Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice and began to wonder if John Watson possessed something the rest of this dull world didn't. Something special.

* * *

As they left the coffee shop, Sherlock began to draw his mental picture. He made sure to keep a file on everyone he met, and extensive ones on those who mattered in his life. Inspector Lestrade could be depicted to the most minute details, as could Mike.

"Physical features," Sherlock muttered to Mike.

"Ah, 5'6"? Sandy hair, blue eyes, tanned-"

"You know I hate that descriptor. New adjective," Sherlock said absently, working on adding details to his picture.

Mike gave a sigh. "Fine, tan lines on wrist and collar, leathery skin the color of the desert. Better?"

"Yes, thank you, Mike. I'm off to a good start."

When they reached the lab, Mike left Sherlock to form the picture as he dealt with a particularly nasty autopsy.

* * *

Once he had gathered as much information as he could from Mike, Sherlock's mental map began to take place. But it wasn't simply the physical aspects he was interested in; he needed to understand the real John Watson.

When John arrived at Baker Street the next day, Sherlock greeted him with a simple nod, and led him into the main room. As he listened to John looking around, he felt a small out of nervousness. What if John didn't like it?

Why did he care?

"Well, it's a lovely place," John said, smiling at Sherlock.

"Will you move in or not?" Sherlock asked in a huff.

"If you'd have me, I'd love to."

"That's settled, then."

"Good."

"Good."

An awkward silence, broken only by Sherlock hearing the kettle boil. "Um, tea?"

"Ta, Sherlock," John said, taking the mug from the taller man. Their fingers brushed, and Sherlock felt John's fingers for the first time.

_Rough, calloused, but warm and leathery. Blunt fingernails; not bitten._

He finished adding it to his mental picture, and turned his attention back to John. "So, John, how was the surgery?"

* * *

John Watson had many charms, but he also possessed a few faults. One of which was his obsessive compulsion to clean.

Two days after the lease had been signed, Sherlock reached for his letters (held under a dagger) and frowned as they were not there. He felt around the mantle, hoping they had moved slightly left, but to no avail.

"John!" He hollard, "where are my letters?"

John came walking down the stairs, hair still wet from the shower. "Oh, sorry, I moved them to the desk."

Sherlock walked the six paces to the desk and found the familiar stack. "In the future, I would appreciate you not moving things. It is tedious, and this house is arranged in a specific manner."

"But it's a disaster!"

"And I understand the chaos. The moment you move something, I become confused. I will thank you for not moving things in the future." Sherlock's voice was clipped and blunt. This was when people left. They couldn't deal with the mess. Sherlock suddenly didn't want John to leave.

"Okay, sorry."

Oh.

That was a much more favourable outcome. "Really? That's it?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry I moved it; habit." Sherlock could hear John smile.

_Understanding_

* * *

The day after the cleaning incident, Sherlock worked up the nerve to ask John a question.

"John, may I touch you?"

He could feel the shock radiating off of John. "W-what? A little soon, don't you think?"

"No, not like that. I wish to observe your emotions, and the way I can do that is by touching your facing." He didn't mention that he wanted to see if John had smile lines or wrinkles on his forehead as well.

"Oh. Um...sure, I guess?"

Sherlock put out his hand, and it was taken by John's calloused one. Gently, he moved up to John's face.

_Smile lines around eyes and mouth. Stubble on chin, Thin lips, long eyelashes. Wrinkles on forehead; stress from war._

Sherlock gave a sigh of contentment. This was coming along quite nicely.

* * *

During his black moods, the times when the call of cocaine nearly became too much, the time when he didn't want to speak to anyone, Sherlock found that John was an incredible asset.

The headaches would come, pounding into his head like an army, and he would want to be alone. He would shout and yell and push John to the edge, hoping to make him leave.

But John never did. John put up with the verbal abuse and even took to giving Sherlock massages when everything became too much.

The one time John came home to see Sherlock cutting lines on the table, he didn't get angry, didn't shout or yell, he simply put out his hand. Cautiously, Sherlock took the invitation, and John led him to his room, helping him curl up under the covers as the soothing tales of Afghanistan washed him into sleep.

The black moods became far and few between, with the ones that did pass through John's emotional barricade lasting for a few hours at most.

Everyone called John a godsend.

Sherlock simply added another word to his map:

_Patient_.

* * *

It irritated Sherlock immensely that he now had someone who cared about him. Why? That person made him eat. At least once a day.

"Sherlock, it's just an egg. Eat it."

"John, I've told you thirty-eight times, I don't eat whilst on a case."

"Bullshit. I won't have you fainting in the middle of a chase. Eat." A plate clattered down in front of him.

"No."

"Now."

"I don't think you heard me-"

"I heard you loud and clear, and I am ignoring anything you say. I won't leave until you eat this."

"But you'll be late for work..."

John said nothing, simply sitting down on the ratty couch next to Sherlock. Sherlock tried to ignore him and go over the facts in his head, but John's breathing was distracting, and he could hear the ticking of the clock in the background.

"You hate being late for work. It impedes on your ethics."

"Doesn't matter."

Minutes passed. No one said anything. The ticking seemed to get louder and louder, and Sherlock knew it was getting closer and closer to the time John was due. Soon, he wouldn't have time to take the tube, and then he would have to get a taxi, which would cost more money, making him grumpy and irritable for the rest of the day.

It was only one egg. It couldn't hurt.

Sherlock picked up the plate, touching John's face for the conformation of the sumg smile he knew was sitting there.

"Thank you," John said quietly, rustling the couch as he got up. "I'll see you this afternoon."

John Watson: caregiver extraordinaire. Sherlock smiled as he quickly ate the cooling egg. The puzzle was slowly coming together. The puzzle of John Watson

_Stubborn_

* * *

In retrospect, the last place Sherlock expected to be shot was at a grand party held at Mycroft's. They were sent to anonymously monitor an American diplomat who Mycroft thought was laundering money. Sherlock confronted the man, and, unbeknownst to him, said man sent a bullet through his side.

It wasn't painful.

Sherlock assumed it was the shock, and the confirmation came as he felt a pair of hands grab him and press onto the wounds. He felt sleepy, and decided it wasn't a bad time for a nap.

"Don't you dare die on me, Sherlock," said a muffled voice from above. "I won't let you do this. Stay with me."

Sherlock wondered why the man cared so much.

Then again, why should he bother finding out? Sleep was a much more pleasurable option.

Sherlock let the darkness overtake him, and he was at peace.

* * *

He awoke to the relentless beeping of machines and the sickeningly stark smell of the hospital. Shifting on the bed, he felt his side groan in protest. Doing so, he heard a chair next to him squeak.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John was here.

"'M'fine, John. Don't worry about me." Why was John here? He voiced his question, and John chuckled.

"Because I was worried sick, idiot. You nearly died on me back there."

Sherlock grumbled into his pillow. "But we're simply colleagues. Besides, from the lack of sound in the halls, it must be late, past visiting hours. How did you get in?"

"I like to think of us as more than simply colleagues, Sherlock. And I may or may not have told them we were married."

Sherlock smirked.

"Don't give me that look! I needed to make sure you were okay..." John shifted in his chair. "And I'm very glad you survived, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt John's warm hand hover over his own, and he picked it up gratefully, the urge for human contact unusual for him. He fell asleep as John drew patterns on his hand.

_Protective_.

* * *

Sherlock was released from the hospital a week and a half after his incident, and John didn't leave his side for the entire time. He assumed that he would die of boredom, but Sherlock found John to be infinitely entertaining, and he cherished the time they spent together.

When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock immediately began to look for his violin, but John grasped his arm.

"No, Sherlock. You need to rest. Recuperation should be for at least another week."

"John, you don't expect me to sit her and wither away to nothing..." Sherlock protested.

"No, but I'd like you to have some common sense." He pulled Sherlock gently towards the couch. "Now I'll make you some tea, and then we can see about getting you something to occupy your mind."

"Lestrade was going to send me some voicemails about new cases-"

"No. No straining your mind either."

Sherlock huffed and sunk into the couch.

"No use pouting about it. I'm going to wait until you are yourself again before you do anything." He slid a mug of hot tea into Sherlock's hands, patting his shoulder as he drew away. "I don't want you hurt again."

Sherlock smiled. John was always so vocal about his emotionns; it was wonderful. Even if he was a bit overpowering, John would never leave his side.

_Careful._

* * *

"Why do you stay?"

He heard John's paper rustle. "What?" He asked, the confusion evident in his voice.

"Why do you stay with me? I provide nothing for you. I'm not even fully functioning." Sherlock didn't know where the words were coming from, he just knew they were true.

John got up, and moved to kneel in front of Sherlock. "Where is this coming from? That case you just solved was brilliant."

"Meretricious," Sherlock brushed off, "I want to know why you're still here. How can you put up with me?"

"Sherlock, you're incredible. You know that, right?"

"But I'm not normal."

"Dull," John scoffed. "You're an incredible genius. You can see things the rest of the world can't-"

"One cannot see if one is blind, John," Sherlock bit out.

John grasped Sherlock's hands. "No, you see even more than us mediocre folks because you're brilliant. You're you, and that is more than any of us have. You deduce things in seconds-"

"I would be better with sight."

"Oh, Sherlock," John murmured, "can't you see? You prove the incredible. You make the impossible a possibility. You take facts and formulate them into a motive. You change the world with a few words, and you take my breath away. I can't imagine you any better than you are right now."

And in that moment, as Sherlock felt the warm glow of John's words flow through him, he found John's last puzzle piece. The part of the picture that always seemed to be missing. That which completed John:

_Love._


End file.
